by Sophie Weeks
“But I can't do either of those things!”
Carla rolled her eyes. “That is the point of the exercise. You try something new. You become something new.”
“You could try being Emilie who does her homework,” Margaret suggested, earning herself a glare from her cousin.
“When I was young,” Carla confided, “I was very silly. In Italy, being a pretty woman … it is difficult, if you wish to do more than marry young or appear topless on the news. In some ways we are very modern—in other ways, no. I knew that I was pretty, and I believed that I did not need to be anything more. I was pretty Carla.”
“Poor you,” Emilie said, dumping the celery in the pot.
“Yes,” Carla agreed, ignoring the sarcasm. “Poor me, because no one expected more from me. You are fortunate. Your cousin, your whole family, they expect more from you.”
“But you're an architect,” Emilie protested.
“Because pretty Carla was not enough for me. I decided to be smart Carla. I took myself seriously, and the world followed suit.” She chuckled a little. “Though leaving Italy did not hurt.”
“You could focus on your riding for a while,” Margaret suggested. “You're a good barrel racer, but you could be preparing for the All Women's Division.”
Emilie thought about that for a while, then finally said, “You mean the kind where they have all the events?”
Margaret nodded. “I haven't been to one of them, but I hear they do all the roping events and even bull riding.”
The girl's face brightened. “I guess if they were looking at my belt buckles, they wouldn't have time to look at my tits.”
“Worth a shot,” Margaret said, grinning.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT WAS A HARD WINTER; there was nothing new in that, Hilltown County had weathered many hard winters. But this one was particularly cruel, with storms lashing the area for weeks at a time, making it nearly impossible to transport either goods or people. At Sandy's Acres, Jon and Gene went forth with axes to cut firewood in the snow, storing the shed with enough fuel to weather emergencies. When Margaret remembered that winter, afterwards, it seemed all white in her mind's eye: the endless snowdrifts, her own bosom pillowing Gene's head, the succession of pale flames that rose up with her grandmother's prayers.
It might have seemed like a fairytale of a land trapped in endless winter but for the little daily miseries. With scarcely any way to get in or out, save by snowshoe or plough, the unhappy family rested uncomfortably in its confinement. The holidays passed indistinct and ill-defined. It was mid-January when Christopher came up the lane with a pair of snowshoes one morning, looking both exhausted and triumphant. The whole family, from Louise down to Sam, gathered in the kitchen to see him and hear his news.
Christopher pulled out a stack of sterile cups. “I've isolated the prion. They'll lift the quarantine for people who can produce a clean sample.”
“Ew,” Emilie said and wrinkled her nose, but she was already reaching for a cup.
“You did it,” Margaret said, smiling at Christopher while Carla bustled around to make a cup of coffee for him.
“I did the first part, that's all. We still don't know how to kill it, it's just identified now.” But Christopher, haggard as his face was, seemed relieved. The pressure of the whole community had lain heavily on him all winter.
He said more, but Margaret didn't stay to hear it. Inside the office, with the door both closed and locked, Margaret found the phone number for her grandparents on the east coast. She dialed swiftly, and her grandmother Harriet's voice had never sounded so welcome. In a furtive, guilty tone, she said, “Gran, do you still—that is, would you still be willing to fly me out for a visit?”
“Of course,” Harriet responded, before all the words were even out of Margaret's mouth. “But we thought you couldn't leave the area?”
“There's been progress. I can get clearance to leave now. I want to see you and Gramps and Uncle Fraser's family.” That was all true, as far as it went, but it left out the fact that Margaret was so far beyond boredom and unhappiness that she wanted to scream out in the middle of the night when everything was quiet for hours and hours and only the thud of her heart beating made any sound.
“And we want to see you,” Harriet said warmly. “Fraser will get on the computer and buy your ticket; when do you want to come?”
“Next week?” Margaret blurted out. “Or whenever is convenient,” she mumbled.
“As soon as possible,” Harriet chuckled. “I understand. How's your family out there?”
“Not great. We have no idea when the ranch will be able to resume operation. We—we don't know which way to turn,” Margaret confessed.
Harriet made sympathetic sounds, and Margaret had to fight back tears. “It's okay, though,” she continued. “It's gonna be okay. But we don't know when …”
“You need a break,” Harriet said in decisive tones. “And we'll see that you get a pleasant one, Margaret, I promise. Give our love to your father and grandmother?”
“Of course I will,” Margaret replied. “Thank you, Gran.”
Margaret mentally rehearsed what she had to tell her father many times the rest of that day. He might take it well, or he might take it very badly. She couldn't be sure, these days. Eventually, when he was going into town to give Christopher his samples the next morning, she simply said, “Once these are cleared, I'm taking a vacation, Dad.”
Jon looked pained. “Honey, I'd like nothing better than to send you somewhere nice for a few weeks. But I can't afford—”
“Gran and Gramps sent me a ticket last night.”
“Not your mother?”
“I didn't call her,” Margaret answered steadily. “I called Gran. She sent her love to you and Bonne-maman both.”
Jon gave an unwilling smile. “She's a good lady. How long will you stay away?”
“Just two weeks, that's all. You won't even know I'm gone.”
***
The two weeks' vacation was exactly what Margaret needed, and her grandparents, who had no other female grandchild, delighted in spoiling her in due measure. Margaret felt guilty when she thought of the rest of her family back at Sandy's Acres, unable to share in the pleasure of new faces and new scenes, but she was determined not to let that diminish her enjoyment. She accepted a commission from her grandmother to design her a dress for her anniversary, and the two spent long evenings planning and pinning together. She wouldn't let her grandmother pay her for it, though. That would be shameful, she thought, to charge your own grandmother when no one else yet paid for your designs.
On the last night of her stay, Margaret was a little alarmed when her grandfather sat her down in the chair across from his. “Margaret, what do you know about this place?”
“What do I …?” Margaret's brow furrowed. “I don't know what you mean—things like history?”
“Maybe.” He leaned forward. “They taught you about the Halifax Explosion?”
She nodded dutifully. “It was at the end of the first world war when a munitions ship caught fire. We had to read that book at school.”
“It was a terrible disaster. Two thousand lives lost. And did you know that ever since then, for nearly a hundred years now, Nova Scotia has sent a Christmas tree to Boston, in remembrance of their help in the aftermath?”
“That's very nice,” Margaret said, wondering if he was getting a bit woolly, giving her history lessons for no reason.
“Nova Scotia pays her debts,” he said, striking his palm with his other hand. “And this family has owed a debt to your father for many a year. When you were a little girl, he came out after that bad storm wrecked the house and one of the boats. He helped us rebuild. Without him, I don't know how we could have managed.”
“He liked doing it,” Margaret smiled. “There's no debt, truly. He loved that summer.”
“There is a debt,” her grandfather said sternly, looking rather imposing with his gray beard and frown. “And it's
ripe for acknowledgment.” He fumbled in his pocket.
“No, Gramps, please, he won't—”
But he took a thick envelope and put it in her hands. “Give this to your father. Tell him to buy stock or throw it in the wind, for I won't have it back.”
“He won't like it at all,” Margaret protested. “We can't take your money that you've worked so hard for.”
“We do fine,” he said. “Fraser handles all the business and tells the hotels and restaurants that they're getting fish from 'traditional Nova Scotia fishing practices,' and they pay top dollar for it.”
Margaret sighed, but finally put the envelope in her pocket reluctantly. “He'll be angry,” she predicted.
“Just you let him squall and then make sure he takes it anyway, eh?” Her grandfather tapped her knee and gave a knowing wink. “That's the way with a hardheaded man.”
***
Hardheaded was the least of what Margaret wanted to call Jon when she presented him with the envelope a few days later. He sputtered, he swore, he said he'd be damned if his ex-wife's parents were going to buy him out of the hole. He ordered Margaret several times to take it back, but she just left it lying there, listening calmly to his shame and anger. Finally, she said, “Let's just see how much it is? For all you know, it's a hundred dollars in small bills.” That was what she had been telling herself since she received the envelope, needing to hedge against disappointment.
Finally, Jon tore it open. His eyes widened slightly. “Yeah, that's not a hundred dollars.” Slowly, methodically, he began counting out a substantial sum of money. When he was done, his hand hovered over the cash, trembling slightly between temptation and pride. Finally, his hand fell on the money, and he tossed it towards Margaret. “Tuition money.”
“I can't take this,” Margaret protested. “Dad, you could buy new stock and seed with that money.”
“I can't buy new stock and seed until Christopher figures out how to stop the damn earth from poisoning my cattle.”
“But the mortgage—”
“Listen,” Jon said, rather sharply, “this isn't a discussion, I am telling you what's going to happen. Take that money, put it in your bank account, and use it for tuition.”
“But they didn't mean it for that.”
“They meant it to help our family,” Jon said finally. “And if that's where I say the help goes, then that's where it goes. Do you think I can stand …” He struggled with himself for a few seconds, then said, “Do you think I can bear watching your dreams die too?”
Reluctantly, Margaret picked up the cash. But she said, “If the mortgage stops being paid, I'll walk down there and pay them in cash if I have to. I won't let you send me away while you go under.” But with that said, her heart was beating faster. College—she could go back to college and leave all this misery behind.
“Put it in the bank,” Jon said. “And don't tell your grandmother.”
***
That night, with her heart troubled and uncertain, Margaret told Gene all that had happened. “I liked being away,” she confessed. “I liked not having to look after everyone and worry all the time. But I can't just leave before things are right.”
“You left after your aunt and uncle died.” Gene's tone conveyed no judgment, merely a fact.
“And look how that turned out,” she returned. “Sam and Emilie deserve what I had.”
“Yeah, but you can't give them that. You can't be their parent.”
“No, but I can be what Aunt Penny was to me.” Though Margaret wasn't sure that was true. Maybe you had to be born with that kind of warmth and love. “That would be enough.”
“Maybe.” Gene hugged her slowly. “But no one can make other people happy when they're miserable.”
“Don't I make you happy?” Margaret whispered into his ear.
“Don't be a dummy.” He kissed her long and leisurely. Margaret leaned into him, letting her worries dissolve into the simple exchange of pleasure for pleasure that he asked. Rationally, he ought to be another worry. If she left, would she ever see him or hear from him again? Margaret wasn't yet sure that she wanted forever with Gene, but she was very clear that she didn't want never.
But in his arms she put all that aside for a time, taking a joy that wasn't demanded and never had to be repaid. They made love, and afterward he whispered to her as she drifted towards sleep, telling her strange stories of the stars that sounded truer than fancy, as though he were a lone recipient of dispatches from the vast darkness.
In the morning Margaret rested against the pillows while he dressed, watching appreciatively as he pulled on his jeans and lit the stove to dispel the morning's cold. He pulled on his boots and then just sat there for a while. Margaret reached out sleepily to hold his hand, and he allowed the caress but didn't move or speak. She actually drifted back to sleep for a minute or two, then awoke and found it odd he hadn't stirred or spoken. “Are you okay?” she murmured.
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“What about?”
“The way the air by the shore feels against my face. Trying to see if I could remember it.”
At first Margaret didn't really understand, and she played aimlessly with his fingers. Then she did. “Is it time?” she asked, turning over to look up at the ceiling, not understanding the tightness in her throat.
But Gene tightened his hand around her wrist. “Not yet, Margaret. But soon, I guess.” He looked down at her. “Haven't stayed this long in one place since I turned eighteen.”
“Why did you stay?” she asked, and it didn't seem narcissistic now to say, “Because of me?”
“I don't know,” he said, looking thoughtful. “I thought you were pretty the first time I saw you, last summer, but I never figured on this. Just didn't have anywhere I wanted to be more.”
“But now you're remembering the sea.”
“Mmhmm. You still smell like it. You haven't washed your hair since you got in.” He leaned down to bury his nose in her hair. “Smells like a salt breeze against my face,” he whispered. “Smells like a ship, maybe, and a whole lot of freedom.”
“Are you sure it isn't time?”
He kissed her neck slowly. “Not yet.”
***
That “not yet” made Margaret a lot sadder than she expected as she went through the rest of the day's tasks. She had spent a lot of their time apart trying to figure out what, exactly, Gene was to her. Her boyfriend definitely. She'd given up resistance on that point quite a while ago. But he was her boyfriend here in Alberta; her mind couldn't transition him to being her boyfriend in London if she went back to Fanshawe. Still, when she'd thought about it before, she'd always been imagining doing the leaving instead of being left. The thought of waking up one morning and finding him entirely gone made her very unhappy, and she romanticized quite a little sorrow about it before mentally shaking herself and reminding herself that he was still right there.
Margaret was sectioning a fresh chicken she'd bought in Red Deer that morning when Jon came in, went straight to the refrigerator, and opened a beer. “Good afternoon to you too,” Margaret began, then stopped when she saw his face. “What's wrong?”
“Tom Greeney,” he said. “Tom Greeney …”
Margaret had to search her memory, but then she remembered the gray, upright man she'd seen sometimes at church picnics growing up. He had a family and lived way out, even further out than the Campbells. “What about him?”
Jon took a deep drink and let out a long breath. “When they opened up the border, a lot of people went out; they knew they couldn't hang on much longer, and they didn't want to anyhow. But a lot of people came in too. Some of them had eviction notices.”
“So the Greeneys got evicted?” That was bad, but it didn't account for Jon's ashen face really.
“They served him with a thirty-day notice, but there was no way he could pay up in thirty days. He …” Jon swallowed. “When the men came back out, he was still there. In the sitting room with his whole f
amily. I guess he … he had his gun, and he killed the kids first, then his wife, then himself.” Then Jon was silent and he just drank.
Suddenly Margaret's bloody task seemed obscene, and she stepped back from the chicken carcass. She stood with her dripping hands in the air for a moment before mechanically stepping to the sink and washing them. “How many kids?” she said, her voice cracking slightly.
“Four. Three girls and a little boy. He shot every one of them in the head. One must have hung on a little longer because he shot her twice. Then his wife—Doc Barton says she had bruises on her—like he had to knock her back when he was killing her babies.”
Margaret closed her eyes and whispered, “God help us.” She sat down at the table beside Jon, her face a blank. “Do they need …” But no. They didn't need anything. They were all dead, the whole family. She couldn't quite process it.
“They need coffins,” Jon said harshly, “but I guess the county can afford to see to that, now they've got the land.” He turned his head and spat.
“It's like the 'valley of the shadow of death' in the Bible,” Margaret said finally. “This, here.”
“Yeah.” Jon stared straight at the wall. “Well, everybody's got to live somewhere.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SPRING CAME EARLY THAT YEAR, but it brought with it no excitement of unfolding leaf and bud. Nothing but weeds seemed willing to grow, and in early April Louise examined her garden tearfully. The young fruit trees that should have been swelling with buds were brown and lifeless. Margaret followed her around the yard as she examined, pruned, and examined again, then finally said, “Daisy, they will all have to come out.”
“I know,” Margaret said, sympathetic to her grandmother's grief. “I'll get the girls down here after lunch to help me dig them out.” She rubbed her forehead. “Dad and Gene can take care of the orchards.”